


Fast Lane for Friendship

by parkguardian



Category: Red vs Blue
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1879407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parkguardian/pseuds/parkguardian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tucker is used to waking up in weird places, but this? Being greeted by an incredibly attractive stranger? That's new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fast Lane for Friendship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ewerts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewerts/gifts).



> based on one of the "Texts From Last Night." hope you enjoy!! feedback is appreciated.

There was starting to be a forming trend in his Saturday mornings.

He'd wake up with a headache the size of a beached whale. His stomach would feel bloated and tight. He'd open his eyes, put a palm to the side of his face, and stare at a ceiling that was not his own.

Today, he was looking upon a water stain slightly in the shape of Manhattan. The keys in his pocket were jabbing him in the leg. Luckily, he hadn't passed out on the floor or been kicked awake by some angry bitch who found him in bed with her boyfriend. He also wasn't in a puddle of his own vomit. He was covered in sweat, nearly glued to the leather couch. He wanted a shower and a handful of painkillers. Worst of all, he was craving the ultimate combatant to hangovers.

Grif had invented the terrible creation. It was the fattest, greasiest burger you could imagine, slathered in all sorts of sauces, even going as far as including ranch, barbecue sauce, and chili. Even the lettuce and onions were soggy. The real genius behind the burger, however, was in the buns. The slimy contents were no longer squished between sesame seed speckled bread. No, far worse. The burger's buns had been substituted with glazed donuts. Krispy Kreme and everything. The real fucking deal--and Tucker was slobbering for one.

There weren't any lights on. The blinds had been drawn shut, closed tight to keep the sun from leaking in. Somewhere to his right, he could hear the creak of a mattress as someone rolled over in their sleep. There was a bumbling snore coming from the other side of the house, and the sound of even breathing reassured Tucker that he was not here alone. At some point in the night, someone had draped a zebra patterned throw over his legs.

He strained to sit up, pushing sticky palms along the leather for leverage. He looked around the room.

The apartment was trashed. There were ashes scattered across the green shag carpet. There were a few crushed cans here and there. Tucker stretched lazily, cracking his back and his knuckles all at once. He moved one of the couch cushions behind him and propped himself up with it. The couch was angled more toward the door than the television, but he could still see the screen without glare. It was playing something on the Netflix queue.

A door creaked. Tucker's head snapped to look in the direction of the noise.

From the hallway, another guy emerged. His hair was dirt blonde and a mess. He couldn't have been more than five years older than Tucker, but the roots of his hair ranged from ash gray to milk white. He was covered in so many freckles, his skin looked like a belt of constellations from a country road. They weren't harsh, orange freckles like Simmons had. Rather, they were subtle, despite their severity.

He didn't seem to acknowledge that Tucker was point blank staring at him as he glided through the chaos. He stepped over someone on the carpet, cautiously weaving his way to the kitchen and pouring a glass of water. He circled back into the living room, watching as the water quivered in the cup with each step he took.

He stopped in front of the couch. Tucker looked up at the blonde and felt like he'd just been punched in the solar plexus.

Tucker hadn't spoken to god in a long time, but in that moment, he sent a small prayer up into the heavens. It went a little something like this:

 _God, I really hope this guy didn't see me doing anything embarrassing last night while I was shitfaced,_ thought Tucker. _If there's any way you could send one of those flying Cherub babies down here with a device similar to the one in Men In Black, I have a chance of swiping his memories and then I have an even bigger chance of maybe blowing him in the bathroom later, because--_

"Good morning, couch dweller," Hot Guy said, successfully dispersing Tucker's prayer. Tucker cursed inwardly. How was he supposed to know if his request got up to the big guy himself if his train of thought was just flipped into a ditch?

Oh right, responding. Forming actual conversation. Tucker was usually very good at that, but his brain was currently failing him.

"Uh, hi," Tucker said flatly. "Is it really morning?"

"I think it's safe to say it's actually closer to twelve at this point," Hot Guy said. "Can I sit with you?"

Tucker nodded, moving his legs. Hot Guy nestled himself into the corner of the couch with practice, almost like he lived here or something. Wait, fuck, did Tucker contribute to trashing a hot guy's apartment?

Tucker watched as Hot Guy took a sip off the top of the glass, eyes carefully tracing the line of his throat as he swallowed. Hot Guy held the glass out to him with speckled fingers.

"Here."

"Thanks," Tucker said, taking the cup. He successfully clacked his teeth on the rim of the cup when he brought it to his mouth before draining half the water in one go.

"It's nice to see someone else is awake," Hot Guy said. "No matter how much I drink, I wake up at eight like I'm a piece of fucking clockwork." He let out a harsh laugh, his fingers coming to absently pick at the zebra throw over Tucker's legs. "You're the first person I've seen been conscious before noon since York and North started throwing all kinds of shit parties up here."

Tucker had so many things he wanted to say. He couldn't settle on just one. Like, oh...got any asprin to go with this water? Or maybe, want to go out and try the ultimate hangover burger with me? I know a fat Hawaiian dude who's totally off his rocker and can flip slabs of beef like he was born to do it.

"By the way, I'm Washington. Well...I'm David, but everyone around here calls me Wash."

Last but not least, Tucker was itching to tell Wash that he'd wake up every day at eight to get a glimpse of such an incredibly hot guy. Seriously, what the fuck. It was almost unfair.

_Okay, look, Tucker. Take it slow. You don't want to scare him off with your own attractive ensemble._

"Lavernius. Tucker," he said. "I go by the latter. Gotta have less syllables if you want it to roll off the tongue just right."

_You fucking idiot, I said take it slow, not kick it into hyperdrive. He'll get overwhelmed with your incredible charm!_

Wash stiffened, not taking his eyes off the blanket on Tucker's legs. He seemed to be shrinking down, trying to hide the red tint to his face.

"No offense, but you don't seem like the type of guy who'd spend all his time at parties, Wash," Tucker continued.

Wash took this as his cue to take his attention off the blanket. He met Tucker's eyes and gave a slight smirk. He shrugged.

"It's mostly my roommates. I know when to take advantage of a situation."

"Again, you don't seem like that type of guy," Tucker snickered.

"I mean, if someone brings over a case of beer, I'm not going to refuse having a few."

"Uh huh, okay, but if it weren't for your friends, you'd probably be stuck on a stick worse than a puppet. Just saying," Tucker said. Tucker nudged Wash's thigh with his blanket covered toes. Wash scrunched his nose up.

"Right, and suddenly the party animal's a master of psychologic profiling. Want me to try this game out on you?"

 _That smug son of a bitch_ , Tucker thought. He waved a hand dismissively, hoping to portray something along the lines of, "I'm an open book" and "You think you're all that, but I know you ain't."

"You didn't seem too panicked waking up under an anonymous roof, so I figure you get around?"

"I don't seem too panicked waking up under an anonymous person, either. Congratulations, Washington, you've entered the lightning round."

Tucker drained the glass of water, even going as far as licking a stray droplet as it ran down the curve of the cup, if only to watch Wash's ears turn pink again. He leaned over, pushing the glass into the wedge between Wash's thighs. Wash let out a noisy sigh.

"You're too straight laced, Wash. Anyone can see that from your military physique and the fact you've trained yourself to wake up when the sun rises. I bet you've got cats, too," Tucker said. He let himself fall back against the couch cushion."No one's going to believe you belong to the scene until they've seen you slip in your own vomit."

"That's disgusting," Wash mumbled.

"Yeah, I'd know, 'cause I've done it before. But you? I'd have a hard time believing you, princess, even if you'd done it right in front of me. You take a few beers when people bring them over, I'll take a few of their hot friends if they tail along. You're following all this, right?" Tucker asked, pointing at him.

"I'm not going to write it down in a fucking notepad."

They went quiet. Tucker grinned like a shark, watching as Wash fidgeted with a rip in the fabric of the couch. Tucker was finding the swing of things again, firing himself off into the banter and breaking the silence.

"You should! This is valuable information--"

"I may not become a human liquor cabinet, Lavernius, but I still get around. I at least know how to take care of myself while doing so," Wash said. "Maybe you should be the one taking notes."

"Oh, yes _sir,_ " Tucker said, mocking a salute.

Wash rolled his eyes. Tucker wiggled his toes along the curve of Wash's thigh. Wash swatted at his shin, only to leave his hand lingering there afterward.

"That was nice, huh?"

"What?"

"The bit where we got snippy with one another. It was nice," Tucker said.

"Did you hit your head on something last night? I swear you've lost the last bit of sanity you managed to hold onto through college," Wash scoffed.

"No, see? It feels like we've known each other forever, 'cause we started bickering."

"Actually, maybe you're still drunk," Wash said. "Damn, I knew I should have made coffee instead of getting you water."

Tucker perked up at this. "You could make me coffee?"

Wash looked back over at Tucker's brightened expression. He seemed buzzing with excitement, his entire composure taking a swing in the positive direction. Wash's lips quirked into a tiny smile.

"Yeah, I could."

"Can you make eggs, too?"

"Don't push it," Wash grumbled.

Yet, ten minutes later and Wash had successfully made an entire pan of scrambled eggs and a pot of coffee. Tucker had perched on the top of the counter adjacent Wash, a vulture preying for scraps. Any time a scrawny fleck of egg hit the top of the stove, Tucker swooped in and popped it into his mouth before Wash could clean it.

"Stop it, you're going to burn yourself."

"I'm an expert, it's fine," Tucker insisted.

"I am going to fucking break you," Wash bit out.

Tucker waggled an eyebrow. "Is that at least a promise? Or are you still all talk?"

Tucker's hangover had hit more like a wave, whereas Wash hadn't drunk himself into nearly such a stupor. He had been the sober man amongst the crowd the night before, and Tucker claimed himself disabled via hangover if it meant getting Wash to do more shit for him.

There was the sound of someone retching into the toilet bowl in the bedroom closest to the kitchen. A bleary eyed Franklin Delano Donut came wandering into the living room shortly after, in an oversized t-shirt in the colour "salmon." Tucker swore it was pink, but he'd been punched in the shoulder for that remark.

Tucker didn't know who was laying on the floor. He guessed it was one of Wash's friends, but maybe Donut knew him. Social circles had the tendency to overlap when it came to alcohol. Donut nudged him with a socked foot. The beanstalk blonde in a purple hoodie still didn't move from the floor. Donut continued, only to stop just before the carpet transitioned to tile, right at the line between the living room and the kitchen.

"Gosh, Tucker, when did you two get all cozy?" Donut waggled his fingers in their direction.

"They're not cozy, they've been fighting all morning," the guy on the floor mumbled.

"It helps," Wash said, scraping eggs out onto a paper plate with the spatula. "Lavernius reveals more about himself through going off on me than I could ever find out from simply asking."

"Yeah? Did he reveal that he goes by Tucker, not Lavernius?" Donut asked.

Wash nodded, passing one of the paper plates over to Tucker.

"Oh, yes. Fewer syllables and the like makes things easier. What can I say? I like a challenge," Wash said.

Tucker didn't reply, only resumed shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth and avoiding making eye contact. He kicked his legs a little, heels hitting the cabinet underneath him. Wash spun around to face Donut.

"Here you are," Wash said. He handed off one of the plates and forks over to Donut.

Donut beamed up at him. "Thank you," he chirped, then retreated as Wash set himself to making Tucker a cup of coffee. He could hear their voices picking up another thread of conversation as he moved further away. He walked down the hall, sauntering past York's room, which had become the hub of activity last night. Almost everyone had passed out strewn around York's room at some hour of the night.

Donut, on the other hand, had taken advantage of North's parkour trick that resulted in lack of mobility for the rest of the evening. He'd holed up in his friend's room during its vacancy. He balanced the plate of eggs in one hand and nudged the door to North's room open.

Frank DuFresne was sprawled out on North's bed, stripped down save for his boxers and wrapped up in striped sheets. Donut sat beside Frank, skewering one of the eggs and lifting the fork to his mouth.

"How's it looking out there?" Frank asked.

"Disorganized." Donut paused, tapping at his chin with his index finger. "You know what though? I think we have another Grif and Simmons situation in our hands, Doc."


End file.
